


Rafael Barba's Great Love

by ToniZenAustin



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToniZenAustin/pseuds/ToniZenAustin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After passing the bar, Rafael Barba is back in Manhattan, where he becomes involved with a musician named Victoria "Torrie"Monaghan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home to a Strange Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildebeem](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=wildebeem).



It all looked so familiar and so foreign. Harvard had at last been a challenge that almost scared him. He liked that. But now he was in his city, his great city, and he was determined to make it his own again.

Whenever possible Rafael walked. To the office, to the courthouse, to dinner. Often he would simply wander, sometimes until dawn.

“Wander” doesn't really fit Barba's brisk, purposeful stride. He'd always walked fast, or run. On each block on the way to mass his father would yell, “Rafi, _parar en la esquina!”_

On this night as most, he had no destination or route in mind. Not that he was without purpose: to drink in the city in large gulps. Dives and posh clubs, beautiful people and _beodos,_ traffic noise and snippets of Italian opera. Whole blocks so changed he became disoriented, only to turn a corner and spot his _abuela's_ favorite cafe.

The food, yes, the food. Pushcarts, mom & pops, domains of renowned chefs. A gumbo of every ethnicity, price range, and conformity to health codes.

Now and then he'd catch a glimpse of a beefy Cuban or Puerto Rican boy with a protective hand on a younger boy's shoulder. For an instant he'd see himself and Eddie. But of course his friend, along with their cohort Alex, was a grown man now. Rafael wondered where; probably still in the Bronx. Rafael knew if he wanted to find out, he could easily ask around the old neighborhood.

Eddie had been their protector. Alex, the ringleader, was usually the reason they needed protection. Barely out of PS 109, he'd have them jumping the turnstile and into Manhattan every moment they could get away. And if a bodega owner or theatre manager or chaperone of pretty girls cornered them, it was Rafi, sweet-faced and fast talking, who'd get them out of trouble and off again into the night – _Los Tres Mosqueteros de Jerome Avenue._

Rafael wished the three of them were walking together now, from his office on Baxter up through Greenwich and Bryant Park, the city and all its riches surrounding them. What kind of trouble, he mused, could they get into now, three well-dressed men with real IDs and platinum cards?

Not that a first-year associate in a prestigious law firm had time for a social life, even one who hardly slept and worked twice as fast as anyone else. His love life was largely nights like this, the city's beautiful women the only sight that turned his head – but slightly, discreetly, occasionally raising an eyebrow.

Now he was at the theatre district. Most patrons were already in town cars or taxis. Fans gathered at stage doors, trading intel on who would sign patiently but quickly, or wave them off, or linger for pictures and small talk.

For this Barba paused. From the alley entrance he could spot the 'graph sharks, who elbowed amateurs out of their way and uploaded their haul onto eBay within minutes. But he was watching the young ones, the girls and boys so fragile, so bursting with hope. He saw in them the kids he grew up with, the boys with white-knuckled dread of gym class, the coy girls inside the fence at St. Catherine's.

As the frenzy of squeals, camera flashes and dashes for cars dispersed and the kids swarmed past him comparing treasures, members of the orchestra trooped out with instrument cases of varying sizes and maneuverability. Car doors were held, horns and strings loaded, bars and cafes agreed upon. Rafael was turning to go when he heard a low thud and a sharp “fuck!” He spun around, hands flying out of pockets – still, inside the good suit, the kid from the barrio.

What he saw was not danger but a woman in distress – more than warranted, he thought. In her hand was a torn-away handle, at her feet a cello case sprung open and rocking slightly. She crouched over the case, then stood again and kicked away her high heels furiously. For all her exasperation the action was incredibly graceful.

The woman again crouched and cursed before Rafael spoke, stepping forward. “Need help?”

She looked up, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face and assessing him. “Gosh, let me think.” She turned back to jostling cello and case. He moved quickly, reaching as he bent down and straightening the lid of the case. He was wrestling her irritated yanking and pushing as much as the cello, but he remained as composed and methodical as he was at any task. At last she stood and let him close and lift her instrument, wrapping both arms around it.

“Thank you,” she said as she went after her discarded shoes. “Hopefully that thing,” kicking at the worn and useless handle, “is the only damage.”

“I'm sure it is. It didn't look like a serious fall.” He bent his right hand out awkwardly. “Rafael Barba.”

“Victoria Monaghan.” She took his hand in a brief, firm grip. “I hope you're right. Instrument insurance is more of a rip-off than car insurance.” She held out her arms to take the load.

“No, please. Where is your car?”

“Coming down Broadway without another fare, I hope.”

He smiled, and got a small one in return. Her posture was relaxing a bit. He pointed the neck of the cello toward the street. “Shall we?”

At the cab stand they exchanged small talk. She'd joined the orchestra a few weeks into the run of the show. It was her first Broadway gig, though she had played musicals and operas in Boston. Barba was about to mention Cambridge when a taxi pulled up. He loaded her instrument for her and turned. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Barba,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Rafael, please. Would you like to have coffee or a drink sometime?” He held onto her hand for just a microsecond extra.

She pulled hers away. “No. But thank you for asking.” She slid into the cab and he closed the door behind her. As he straightened and gave a slight wave, the window slid down. “Hand me your phone,” she said, extending an arm. Barba blinked but did so. She keyed something in quickly and handed it back. The address book now had a new number.

“Torrie,” he read aloud, eyebrows raising.

“If I answer to that tomorrow, it's a yes.”


	2. A Rare Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafael Barba and his new ladyfriend Torrie Monaghan enjoy an evening in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PG-13: Romantic foreplay, a vulgar word at the end.

Rafael cradled both wine glasses in one hand and poured with the other. He handed Torrie's to her, set down the bottle, turned to his stereo and pressed a button. Chamber music became “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” He sipped, then sat his glass and Torrie's on a side table. “Needs to breathe,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her to him. She smiled. "Don't we all?"

Hours stolen from their frenzied days and conflicting schedules were precious. They swayed together, slow and easy. Torrie loved nothing more than a man who could dance. And cook. And make her laugh.

She tucked her head under his chin. Rafael folded their arms in to nestle beside her. Her scent was so intoxicating, the whole of her. A heady blend of cut grass, the ocean, freshly ground spice. His description made him sound like a wine taster, he thought with an amused puff of a sigh. So he was, in a manner of speaking, one drunk on a rare vintage.

Rafael's thumb stroked hers slowly. Torrie kissed the back of his hand – so, so softly. “Penny for your thoughts?” He pressed his cheek alongside her temple. “Pay yourself. They're all of you.” She tilted her head back with a knowing smile. “All _of_ me, or _all_ of me?” He answered with a lingering kiss.

Sinatra gave way to Coltrane and Hartman and the most romantic song in any language – high praise from a Cuban. Torrie backed toward the sofa, pulling their arms straight until he stumbled forward. Rafael sat and reached for the wine glasses as she nestled into him. They sipped and kissed, sipped and kissed, deeper and deeper.

Rafael reached awkwardly to set his glass down. Torrie stretched across him to do the same. He turned her to sit in his lap, kissed her mouth, neck, shoulder, stroked her back, around her tiny waist, up to her breasts. She ran her hands up his arms to the back of his head. She guided him downwards; he fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. She shifted and slipped her hand under his to take over. Rafael pushed blouse and bra strap back. His mouth moved over the firm mound of her breast. Tongue flicked nipple. Teeth closed around it. Deeper into his mouth, rolling his tongue across and over and around.

Torrie shifted on his lap to reach into his sweater. Why didn't this man wear a button-up shirt? As if hearing her, Rafael leaned back to peel it off. Wriggling delightfully on his thighs, she shrugged out of the shirt and slipped off the bra. Rafael leaned her back against the armrest, eagerly moved his mouth down her belly, his hand along her hip, around her fine, firm ass.

In the moment they had pulled away, Torrie noticed the change in music: Bene Moré, his favorite. She realized the previous song had been the same style. She tilted her chin against his head. “The Cuban music. Is it going to last a while?” His face still pressed to her, he murmured, “As long as you like. You do like?”

She put her hands against his chest and pushed him up. “Fuck me like it's Havana in the 50s.”


	3. The Quality of Mercy in a Pocket of Manhattan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lovers' sexual relationship takes a new turn for Rafael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated R: graphic sexual practice, not terribly kinky, may be triggering for simulated violence.

They spooned lazily, whispering, the tension of the day melted away. The back of Rafael's fingers brushed along her belly, unconsciously until her throaty sigh. His lips brushed the nape of her neck; she turned her head to kiss him. Rolled toward him. His palm touched her shoulder and eased her back down. His hands and mouth moved over her, lightly then firmly. Slowly then more quickly. Strokes growing longer then shorter, circles expanding and contracting, up and down and around and away. Belly. Breasts. Throat. Thighs.

Rafi. Only she called him this, and only here. His slow, soft touch triggered in her a specific longing. As he bent to her mouth again she took an unsteady breath. “Rafi," she murmured. " Make me beg.”

Rafael's eyes flew open. This was the last thing he expected from this strong, assured woman “Like this?” Teeth closed on her lower lip, opened and pulled away. She made a short puff of a chuckle. He bit again – barely nipped really – tentatively.

He pulled back with a thoughtful look. “We need a … not a safe word… I guess – a mercy word?” He thought a moment.

“Mercy it is,” he answered his own question decisively. He was always confident; It was one of the things that made her trust him. He palmed a breast. Squeezed, a bit tighter than his usual caress. Abruptly snatched his hand away. Back down, fingertips upwards and together around the nipple. A slow pinch. Easing off. Pinch, quicker and more firmly. Ease. Pinch. Drift away to the rim of her aureole.

The back of his hand brushed up to her neck, and then was gone. She touched the hair on his chest.

He leaned back, pulling her fingers away. “No.” Quietly, not fully voiced. Rafael dropped her hand, again withdrew his own, his entire beautiful body. No contact for a long moment. She didn't see that this was more in hesitation than reproach. This was all so foreign to him. His nature was giving, patient. He sometimes seemed to surrender to being pleasured just for the joy of seeing her own loving delight. In a way, she wanted to play and tease him as well.

"Rafi, please, you know I want -"

"Oh, I know all right." He turned with a smirk. He'd realized that he could play a character, like the persona he assumed in his work.

His long fingers swept down her belly, around her hip, turning her onto her side. As she inched toward him, he stopped her. "Close enough." The fingers now drummed against her skin, as if deciding on the next lure to dangle. He held her mound, massaging her vulva.

"Now you can tell me," Rafael said. "Tell it well, and you may get a  _bit_ of it."

Torrie was surprised, she had to admit. Those she'd played with before would tell her scornfully what they wouldn't do. Leave it to a lawyer, she chuckled, to turn her own love talk against her.

The "hand curled closed. "Think it's funny?" Rafael asked coldly. "Or maybe _that's_ what you want, for me to sit back and laugh at you."

"No, Rafi - "

"You don't get to call me that."

The words stung. It was the cruellest thing he could have said.

Rafael bit his lip. When she used that name, he would whisper in Spanish every endearment, every passionate declaration he could think of until she stopped his mouth with a deep kiss. But this was real pain he saw on her face. As the tears stung, he knew his pain was as strong.

Torrie pulled his hands to her face, kissed his fingers. "Rafi, _cariño_. Mercy."


	4. Drawing Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A recent experience deeply effects Torrie. Her reaction shocks Rafael.
> 
> The non-profit, Songs of Our Hearts, is a shameless mashup of Artists Striving to End Poverty:
> 
> https://asteponline.org
> 
> And the Joyful Heart Foundation:
> 
> http://www.joyfulheartfoundation.org
> 
> Please help their good works if you can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated R: violence (resolved), triggering

Rafael pressed his hands to the pot of steeping tea and frowned. To him, hot tea meant the vile, bitter concoction _Abuelita_ had forced on him when he'd had a bad case of the flu. He hadn't been sick a day since, due either to the brew's miraculous powers or his own determination never to taste it again.

This smelled nice, though. It was Torrie's favorite, Moroccan green, and Rafael hoped it would bring both of them some comfort.

She was curled tautly in the chair as he set the tray down. He handed her a hot cup with a tentative smile. She took it then looked quickly away again. Rafael sat across from her and touched the deep, fresh scratches on his cheek. “Think I can pass it off as a shaving mishap?” he said lightly.

Still Torrie did not look up. She seemed to have forgotten her tea, not even cupping it for warmth. “I'm sorry.”

“ _Cariña_.. baby...” he whispered. “One sip, for me. I promise it's drinkable.”

Torrie complied. She looked at him with some effort, but not unpleasantly. “You sound like my grandma when I was home sick from school.” She shifted in the chair and let the vapor rise against her face. “You're not asking.”

Rafael leaned forward, elbows on knees, and shook his head. “All I need to know right now is how much you're hurting. The why can wait.” He sipped his own tea. He really wanted a stiff whiskey right now, not even his usual single malt scotch. Something harsh to overwhelm his own pain.

She sighed and swallowed. “It's the kids. The stories they're telling.” He settled into the corner of the couch and stretched an arm along the back. Rafael wanted to hold her so badly – to let her cry, hurt him again, whatever would help her. He rapidly tapped a finger to keep him from rubbing hard against the wound.

Torrie set her cup down and stared at nothing in particular. The teens she spoke of were from the workshop she'd been assisting with – “facilitating,” she called it. He knew something about it, how they, girls and boys, were turning stories from their hard young lives into a performance piece. They wrote the script with the help of a young playwright; Torrie worked with them on the score, slipping in a bit of music instruction.

When she'd joined the non-profit, Songs of Our Hearts, he'd been so proud of her. She bloomed with excitement after every session. She'd stop and laugh at her own rapid-fire talking, wishing she could disclose more to him. Who could keep a secret better than a lawyer? she reasoned. He'd always wave it off and listen for more of what she was free to share.

Rafael tried again for a bit of lightness. “I thought art was supposed to be cathartic.” Torrie gave him a wistful half-smile. She'd absorbed it from him somewhere along the way. “For them, yes. For us, not so much.

“I knew they'd had bad experiences,” Torrie began, “but I wasn't prepared for what I heard. One girl, Steffie –.” She stopped; she shouldn't even tell him names. “The rawness, the terror and rage, horrible, unthinkable –.” She straightened and leaned toward him. “And to see them now, so brave, so strong....” She was talking faster now, some of that near-manic energy returning. “I'm amazed at how they can tell it all. How they turn it around, own it, and soar.”

She looked down and then back at him, tears spilling suddenly. “I couldn't do it. I wouldn't even survive.”

Rafael's own eyes burned. “Yes you would. You would. You'd search until you found someone who could listen without flinching. Who could give you the gift of knowing your own courage. Someone like you.”

Now she was in his arms. Rafael wrapped around her gently, laid his cheek against her brow and spoke softly. _“Dulzura, mi cielo.”_ English was as natural as Spanish but was inadequate for raw emotion. He knew Torrie still found it comforting. Ragged gasping eventually gave way to deep, slow breathing. She went limp on his chest and drifted into sleep.

As she lay against him peacefully, his thoughts swam. He'd teased her now and then about neglecting him. But in truth he'd spent their time apart working harder than ever. He was making a tremendous impression on the partners. Rumors circulated among the other associates, with no slight jealousy, that he was being fast-tracked for a partnership.

Rafael had considered her work a boost to her own career, a chance to make connections, to make a name for herself among the patrons of the New York music world. A power couple on the rise, he'd told himself. Now he swallowed in shame at his shallow ambitions.

In an attempt to find a bit of courage like her own, he forced himself to relive the attempt at lovemaking that had taken such a black turn.

He responds to her ferocity with enthusiasm, mistaking it for an invitation to one of their games. As he feigns aggression, she answers in kind. His excitement grows with her intensity until he is barely holding on for her to finish.

Then suddenly his cheek is searing as if branded. With a shock he touches the blood welling at the wound. He draws back, oblivious to anything but the rage in her eyes. Her arms are still flailing at him, her legs kicking. A blow lands on his chest and knocks him to the floor. And still she lurches toward him.

“Torrie!” No response. _“¡Merced!_ Mercy!”

At last she returns to now. She collapses into the bed. He moves toward her, but before he can speak she is rushing for the door. He can hear her panting, pacing. When he steps into the doorway she draws away into the chair.

At the memory, he felt for the first time the physical ache at his sternum. He pressed it lightly and winced. _Mañana el moréton_ , a bruise tomorrow. He bit his lip, hoping her anguish would not return when she saw it.

For now, this moment of peace they shared was all he wanted.


	5. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One chapter in the life of Rafael Barba ends. He begins another.

At midday Barba was as usual striding through Manhattan. Now his routes were the noisy boulevards instead of the side streets. He no longer sought out the small corners of New York. He could not enjoy his love for the city. Instead he sought to blank out his thoughts and work off his emotions.

At work Barba had lately demonstrated a frightening ferocity at questioning plaintiffs and prepping clients for testimony. His relentlessness resulted almost without fail in quick and favorable settlements. Mr. Poole, senior partner for the criminal division of the firm, was so impressed he had stolen the young man from civil.

Still Barba craved more time in court. Poole urged patience while he honed the skill of balancing restraint and aggression. His ambition, however, was dimming with a growing distaste for the firm's wealthy clientele.

Last week's conversation made it worse. “I need a half day personal time next Thursday,” he told Mr. Poole. In retrospect a question, or even a "sir," would have produced a more favorable response.

Poole frowned. “Rafael, I don't see how that's possible with the trial date on the NetForce case so close. It involves a great deal of technical detail.”

“Both the client and I are more than ready for court, sir. A half day away from the case would benefit Mr. Willems. And my experience from civil with such cases has served me well.”

“The ADA has similar experience. And isn't there a tremendous amount of discovery to sort through still?” ADA Cutter was notorious for hiding crucial evidence in a flood of unimportant files.

“Mr. Poole, The clerks have done a tremendous job of sifting the chaff from the grain, so to speak, as well as assisting with preparation for _voir dire_ ,” Barba countered. In no small part due to his driving them. A few had quietly requested to assist other attorneys, one accepting a career setback. “The case is as close to iron clad as possible.”

Poole's irritation was growing. “May I ask the purpose of this absence?” Of course it was not a question.

Barba took a breath before answering. “With all due respect, sir, I've earned the benefit of the doubt on that score.”

The student has surpassed the master, Poole mentally conceded – certainly another point in Rafael's favor. In spite of – or rather because of – the arrogance, the mentor was fond of this young man. “I expect your return before the end of the day.” Barba repressed a smirk; both knew days did not end for associates. “I will of course need to inform the other partners.”

 _Mierd_ _a_. But the implied threat to his standing did not deter him. “Of course. Thank you, Mr. Poole.”

Now Barba flagged a taxi and barked out his destination in Midtown West near John Jay College. Once inside Rosario's he regretted it. This was the first Cuban cafe he'd taken Torrie to. Rafael had reveled in her delighted moans after the bird-like appetites of Harvard women.

Wishing he'd called in an order, Barba dismissed the idea of getting a table and waited just outside for his sandwich. Chewing it as he went, he turned down 59th. With a pang of nostalgia, he paused outside the Church of St. Paul the Apostle. He'd loved the holy day masses his family had attended – the rare times Papi had no need to threaten him into going. A glimpse inside the grand palace of glory to God again filled him with awe. College friendships with “lost souls” had embittered him to church doctrine, but his basic faith stayed with him.

Rafael tossed the half-eaten sandwich and stepped inside. he lit a candle for his grandparents and said a short prayer. Then with a hard swallow, another for Torrie. He turned to go, then back to a seat along one side, about midway to the altar.

The argument last spring rushed into his mind. It had been such a shock, though looking back it shouldn't have been.

When she'd told him she'd been accepted for a full-time paid position at Songs of Our Hearts, Rafael had been thrilled. The surprising choice to turn away from her budding musical career was more than made up for by her constant glow. The rapid-fire tales of her work had become a nightly ritual.

The next revelation came like a bullet to the chest. “Nairobi?” he threw back. “What are you thinking?”

Torrie closed her eyes. She'd thought she was ready for this talk. She preferred his anger over anguish, though. “I'm thinking about what I can do. Which is a lot of good where it's desperately needed.”

“Agreed. But do you honestly think you're ready to take this on? Really, do  _they?"_

Her patience grew thin. “Apparently. Do you think you're the only one who excels at their job? Where have you been?”

“Your abilities are irrelevant,” Rafael argued. “Directing a program is a big challenge anywhere. Starting from scratch even more so. Ten thousand miles away?” He failed to stay in lawyer mode. “Where do you get the balls?”

Any sympathy left her. “Think I'm going to say 'from you'? Is your arrogance really so all-consuming?”

It was gone now. He dropped his head, turning his eyes up to her. “Shall I state the obvious?”

God, not the furrowed brow. She wanted to think it was pure manipulation. Softly: “Do _I_ need to?”

“For how long?” A year, two. Please, God, no longer.

She lifted one shoulder, more apology than shrug. “As long as it takes.”

“Right.” He turned away.

She stepped toward him, hands rising for his shoulders. “Rafi – "

He whirled. “Don't you dare!” he yelled. His red face was close enough to fling tears into hers. Through grit teeth: “Don't _dare_ try that now.” The low, quiet voice was more powerful than the shout.

Her own eyes filling, Torrie took a long, jagged breath. She never needed to hold him, for him to hold her, more than now. “I'm sorry. I know you think I have a choice, but I don't really. I wish I could see one, even a hard one.”

Rafael's own breathing was staccato now. He stepped back and lifted his chin. “Fine. _Partir_ _._ Go.” As if she needed a translation. As if she needed more than the look on his face.

At the church Rafael clutched his medallion until it dug into his palm. A passage from the gospel of St. Mark came to him: Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.

A lined but familiar face was beside him. Father Eduardo. The old man did not recognize him. Probably the fancy suit, he mused. “Are you here for confession, my son?”

Rafael was afraid if he began, he'd never stop. _“No, Padre, gracias. Por favor, otro vez.”_

The cab turned downtown. At a glimpse of his passenger's face in the mirror, the driver sped up.

Now Rafael was standing at the steps. He ran a hand across a cheek. Stop inside, splash cold water, he thought. He smoothed down his tie and set his jaw. At his customary determined pace, Rafael Barba climbed the steps to One Hogan Place. Office of the District Attorney for New York County.


End file.
